Depression and Me: A Love Story
The following is a blog, the grammar will be bad, the spelling perhaps worse- but since I have chosen not to hire an editor for my writing, this is how it shall remain. I am somewhat comforted in knowing that my incoherent thoughts will remain preserved, as long as the internet will allow. I will write when inspired, and quit when I get bored, even if that's seemingly in the middle of a thought. This is how I am.
No one is probably going to read this, but that's fine with me. Writing is a way to immortalize ones feels, to make something permanent that is otherwise intangible and fleeting, to live forever long after you have gone. If I die tomorrow, my mother could read this and at least understand how I felt TODAY. It's not really important to me, but if Van Gough were to keep a blog I think a lot of people would be interested to know just how he was feeling- even if no one cared at the time.
First off, I'm sure there are people who are going to think this title is quite grim, but for the record sarcasm never conveys too well over the internet.
The truth of the matter is, I am almost 100% certain I am 'clinically depressed' at least by societal standards, but since the mental definition of what it means to be depressed isn't all to clear-I am basically just slapping a generalized word onto a very potent and distressing feeling.
It's confusing and frustrating, bewildering and comforting, selfish and tiresome, its angry and sad and sometimes even content and almost always loathing. It's the way I feel everyday.
Whining you say? No, and I'll tell you why.
I don't want sympathy- I want to be left alone. I don't want to talk to someone about it, I don't want someone there to tell me everything is going to be ok and if I just TRY as hard as I can everyday- these feelings will go away. Because.. they wont. I may feel content or ever happy for fleeting moments, but eventually I will return to this. But its not all that bad. Sure I feel tired all the time, annoyed, disgusted, lonely, and frustrated- but its not something I can't deal with... something I haven't been dealing with since I was a child. The reason I am writing this is to connect (possibly) with someone who feels the same way. To try and explain in the best way possible my internalized feelings so that someone out there may be able to read this and think to themselves 'hey, I know what they mean.' Living shouldn't be about constantly trying to fix your broken life, it should be about living that life and trying to understand it- or at the very least share it with others, so that eventually when you die you can rest easy knowing that at least you knew YOURSELF, or maybe helped someone understand themselves by inspiring contemplation within them.
Alright, off on a tangent- going to come back to what I was really going to talk about. Now isn't that exciting? I knew all along, but you're just finding out now.
I'm going to talk about something depression and I do a lot together, when we have free time. It's called self sabotage. I was thinking about it today because I had done something so COMPLETELY wrong and half ass-ed that it actually made me wonder WHY I had done it. After only a few moments I realized I had done it on PURPOSE. Intriguing.
The only reason I ever even thought about it was because I had disappointed someone with my sub par efforts, and then had this vision of what my mother would think if she knew. Would every response I had to her asking why I had thought it was ok to not do my best sound like an excuse? Yes. Probably. Excuses are funny, if you think about it. They are a way for someone to try and save face, a way to try and preserve your integrity, but in the end you're only making yourself look more the fool. It is much easier to try and be accepting of yourself, even if doing so makes you realize that others will view you as a bad person. So you're lazy, or selfish, or just plain didn't care. People are making those judgments about you regardless of what you say to mislead them, so why bother? You're wasting your own time, energy, and really only distancing yourself from personal understanding. In my eyes you're only a bad person if you kill kittens and murder people without reason- yet that is also my opinion, therefore it should matter little to you.
Anyway, it was thinking about the actual reason, instead of an excuse- that lead me to understand why I had been so careless. I did it on purpose.
The first thing I imaged my mother saying was 'I raised you better than this.' and the only valid response I could think of that wasn't an excuse was 'Yes, you did, but this is how I turned out.' This lead me down another avenue of thought that isn't entirely related, so maybe I'll come back to it later.
I fucked up on purpose. So I started thinking about that- because honestly who the hell messes up on purpose? Well obviously I do. But why?
The answer I arrived at: Because its easier to do something wrong, and have someone be disappointed in you for it, than you give it your all and still not meet someone's expectations.
I know, that sounds a little lack luster or irresponsible, and sure, it probably is. I don't do these types of things consciously, I am only finding them out about myself- and I am very curious as to what happened to me to cause me to develop this kind of coping mechanism. Or perhaps I was just born this way? Who knows.
And I'm also not entirely sure if my friend depression is to blame, but since this sort of behavior is probably categorized as 'not healthy' or 'not normal' then who better to blame right? Because it's easier to blame depression for something than it is to own up to the fact that having a brain and producing thoughts and emotions automatically is going to make you abnormal. There is no 'normal' when it comes to something so diverse as life, why the hell do people think its ok to decide what's acceptable and what isn't? Another rant for another day.
The bottom line is, by doing something wrong on purpose, I was defending my pride. Perhaps that seems like a waste of time, but it actually put me on the right track. Its easier for me to gauge someones expectations without getting my pride hurt. I didn't try my best, so there was no reason for me to really be upset.
And oddly enough I only do this with family. Friends and strangers are people you chose to know, therefore it is easier to care less about what they think, and easier to not be injured over their opinions of you. Your family will always hold the highest expectations of you.
In the end am fully aware of my capabilities and short comings, but it would seem I am not comfortable with other people knowing these things. Perhaps in the end withholding this information is a last ditch effort to preserve myself.
Anyway I am distracted now and I dont feel like writing anymore. Perhaps I will write more another day.
-VC
No one is probably going to read this, but that's fine with me. Writing is a way to immortalize ones feels, to make something permanent that is otherwise intangible and fleeting, to live forever long after you have gone. If I die tomorrow, my mother could read this and at least understand how I felt TODAY. It's not really important to me, but if Van Gough were to keep a blog I think a lot of people would be interested to know just how he was feeling- even if no one cared at the time.
First off, I'm sure there are people who are going to think this title is quite grim, but for the record sarcasm never conveys too well over the internet.
The truth of the matter is, I am almost 100% certain I am 'clinically depressed' at least by societal standards, but since the mental definition of what it means to be depressed isn't all to clear-I am basically just slapping a generalized word onto a very potent and distressing feeling.
It's confusing and frustrating, bewildering and comforting, selfish and tiresome, its angry and sad and sometimes even content and almost always loathing. It's the way I feel everyday.
Whining you say? No, and I'll tell you why.
I don't want sympathy- I want to be left alone. I don't want to talk to someone about it, I don't want someone there to tell me everything is going to be ok and if I just TRY as hard as I can everyday- these feelings will go away. Because.. they wont. I may feel content or ever happy for fleeting moments, but eventually I will return to this. But its not all that bad. Sure I feel tired all the time, annoyed, disgusted, lonely, and frustrated- but its not something I can't deal with... something I haven't been dealing with since I was a child. The reason I am writing this is to connect (possibly) with someone who feels the same way. To try and explain in the best way possible my internalized feelings so that someone out there may be able to read this and think to themselves 'hey, I know what they mean.' Living shouldn't be about constantly trying to fix your broken life, it should be about living that life and trying to understand it- or at the very least share it with others, so that eventually when you die you can rest easy knowing that at least you knew YOURSELF, or maybe helped someone understand themselves by inspiring contemplation within them.
Alright, off on a tangent- going to come back to what I was really going to talk about. Now isn't that exciting? I knew all along, but you're just finding out now.
I'm going to talk about something depression and I do a lot together, when we have free time. It's called self sabotage. I was thinking about it today because I had done something so COMPLETELY wrong and half ass-ed that it actually made me wonder WHY I had done it. After only a few moments I realized I had done it on PURPOSE. Intriguing.
The only reason I ever even thought about it was because I had disappointed someone with my sub par efforts, and then had this vision of what my mother would think if she knew. Would every response I had to her asking why I had thought it was ok to not do my best sound like an excuse? Yes. Probably. Excuses are funny, if you think about it. They are a way for someone to try and save face, a way to try and preserve your integrity, but in the end you're only making yourself look more the fool. It is much easier to try and be accepting of yourself, even if doing so makes you realize that others will view you as a bad person. So you're lazy, or selfish, or just plain didn't care. People are making those judgments about you regardless of what you say to mislead them, so why bother? You're wasting your own time, energy, and really only distancing yourself from personal understanding. In my eyes you're only a bad person if you kill kittens and murder people without reason- yet that is also my opinion, therefore it should matter little to you.
Anyway, it was thinking about the actual reason, instead of an excuse- that lead me to understand why I had been so careless. I did it on purpose.
The first thing I imaged my mother saying was 'I raised you better than this.' and the only valid response I could think of that wasn't an excuse was 'Yes, you did, but this is how I turned out.' This lead me down another avenue of thought that isn't entirely related, so maybe I'll come back to it later.
I fucked up on purpose. So I started thinking about that- because honestly who the hell messes up on purpose? Well obviously I do. But why?
The answer I arrived at: Because its easier to do something wrong, and have someone be disappointed in you for it, than you give it your all and still not meet someone's expectations.
I know, that sounds a little lack luster or irresponsible, and sure, it probably is. I don't do these types of things consciously, I am only finding them out about myself- and I am very curious as to what happened to me to cause me to develop this kind of coping mechanism. Or perhaps I was just born this way? Who knows.
And I'm also not entirely sure if my friend depression is to blame, but since this sort of behavior is probably categorized as 'not healthy' or 'not normal' then who better to blame right? Because it's easier to blame depression for something than it is to own up to the fact that having a brain and producing thoughts and emotions automatically is going to make you abnormal. There is no 'normal' when it comes to something so diverse as life, why the hell do people think its ok to decide what's acceptable and what isn't? Another rant for another day.
The bottom line is, by doing something wrong on purpose, I was defending my pride. Perhaps that seems like a waste of time, but it actually put me on the right track. Its easier for me to gauge someones expectations without getting my pride hurt. I didn't try my best, so there was no reason for me to really be upset.
And oddly enough I only do this with family. Friends and strangers are people you chose to know, therefore it is easier to care less about what they think, and easier to not be injured over their opinions of you. Your family will always hold the highest expectations of you.
In the end am fully aware of my capabilities and short comings, but it would seem I am not comfortable with other people knowing these things. Perhaps in the end withholding this information is a last ditch effort to preserve myself.
Anyway I am distracted now and I dont feel like writing anymore. Perhaps I will write more another day.
-VC